White Noise and Backwash
by alyseci5
Summary: Nick. I'm not you.


A/N: Written in response to a challenge from Soo.

Disclaimer: The characters of CSI are the property of CBS Broadcasting Inc and Alliance-Atlantis Communications. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

He lets the words wash over him. The theme is so familiar that he only has to tune in at certain points and make the right noises and by now even they are second nature. It leaves him time to drift, and that's not always a good thing. He's always been able to fill in the gaps, to read between the lines. It's a talent that comes in useful in a family like his, where nothing is ever explicitly stated but where there's plenty going on beneath the surface.  
  
All surface gloss and shine, covering cracks miles deep.  
  
He's grown used to that too, knows where he fits in the grand scheme of things. Doesn't every family need a black sheep, the one who doesn't fit? It's strangely ironic, then, that in his family the one who didn't fit isn't a drunk or a drug addict, an unreliable parent, the high school drop out. Typical of the Stokes Family that even the black sheep has to be whiter than white.  
  
There's a heavy silence on the other end of the line, and he tunes in long enough to realise that he's missed his cue. Another way he's fucked up to add to the oh, so many infinitesimal ways he's fucked up in the past. He runs the conversation so far through his head, but the words slither away from him, refusing his attempts to pin them down. Maybe it's because familiarity breeds a certain kind of contempt, and contempt will be what he hears if he admits to missing anything. Even that contempt, though, will not come to the surface, but will hover underneath, like a worm in an apple.  
  
He's too tired to fight, not that he's ever been good at fighting what is left unsaid. The day wears as heavily on him as the silences between them, and he closes his eyes briefly, presses his fingers against the lids so that he sees white stars. He starts to apologise, means to own up to it, pleading exhaustion as a reason for inattention, but what comes out instead is, "I'm not you."  
  
There's a brief silence, and he imagines his words shooting down wires, little sparks that twist and shock. Wishes briefly that he could take them back because they contain a world of potential hurt, both for him and the person they're aimed at.  
  
But it's too late. It's always too late. Has been for years, since the first time he went to his Father's Alma Mater but failed to pick the 'right' course. And that's a decision he wouldn't take back even if he could.  
  
"I'm sorry?" His father's voice is cultured, as always - the accent is only laid on thick when he's turning on the charm - but he senses the freeze underneath, the shock at something that should have remained unspoken being said.  
  
"I'm not you, Dad." Memory resurfaces, details of their one sided conversation. "I'm not you, and I'm not Gabe."  
  
"Nobody ever suggested you should be your brother, Nicholas, and I would have thought that you would have been pleased -"  
  
"I am pleased." Another big no-no, interrupting an adult speaking, and Nick seldom thinks of himself as an adult when speaking, or being spoken to, by his father. Old habits die hard, but in for a penny, in for a whole buck. "I am pleased that Gabe looks a shoo-in for ADA. I'm just sayin'..."  
  
"Just saying what?"   
  
There's an edge of impatience in his father's voice, which is another familiar thing. It makes his throat burn, choking him on the words which want to come out. He settles, again, for, "I'm pleased for you, and I'm pleased for Gabe. But I'm not you, and I'm never gonna be, Daddy." He can sense, even over this distance, the frown gathering between his father's brows and heads it off with a quiet, "And I don't want to be."  
  
There's another, longer silence, and this time he can't read between the lines. They're heading into uncharted territory now, and it's liberating and terrifying all at once.  
  
It makes him incautious, this freedom. Lets words spill out that have always died before behind his teeth.  
  
"I'm not Gabe, Dad, but I do good work. And I'm good at it."  
  
His father's, "Nicholas," comes out more like a sigh, the weight of a thousand wasted expectations behind it, and he clenches his closed eyes more tightly shut, the stars becoming swirls. He thinks of telling his father about the recommendation Grissom gave him, but knows too well the route the conversation will take after that. There will be inevitable questions about the post that no longer exists, and in his father's eyes a recommendation for nothing will amount to nothing too.  
  
His father won't understand. He won't get that Nick really is okay with it because, for one brief moment, he understood that he meant something. Meant something to Grissom, whose disapproval is far too familiar. Meant something to his colleagues and was trusted to mean something in the future. His father won't understand that that brief glimpse of trust from a man he trusts and respects means more to Nick than any amount of accolades.  
  
It was something he earned on his own, not something his name gave him.   
  
He's too tired to argue, and for once that doesn't feel like giving in. "It's okay, Dad," he says, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. He's had it re-plastered more than once, and yet he can still see the joins where the old plaster meets the new if he stares hard enough.  
  
It's another non-victory his father will never know about - that Nick managed to stay in his despoiled home, in spite of the urge to flee.  
  
"Listen, I'm tired, okay? It's been a long day." It has - a sixteen-hour shift and Nick doesn't think he'll ever get the stench of that room out of his skin. Too much despair, and yet if he hadn't rolled around in that filth, someone like his brother wouldn't be wowing a jury with their oratory skills in six months time. "I'm going to turn in."  
  
It's bright outside, and he almost hears the instinctive protest jumping to his father's lips, even over all those miles, before the fact that he works nights sinks in. He's always been that step out of synch with the rest of the family. Why change the habit of a lifetime?  
  
There's another, slightly awkward pause before his father returns, "Goodnight, son."  
  
He shifts slightly on the couch, already wondering whether he'll make it to his bed or whether he'll just fall asleep here. It wouldn't be the first time. However, as he takes the phone away from his ear, his father's voice draws him back.  
  
"Nick... we are... we're proud of you too, son."  
  
His father's voice sounds gruff, perhaps with embarrassment, perhaps with resentment at actually having to vocalise the sentiment. He's sure that on some level his father is proud of him - has always been sure - but it's not the kind of pride that has his parents phoning Gabriel to tell his brother how he's doing, what cases he's cracked. Not that they ask him anyway. There appears to be something, to their mind, rather sordid about the details; as though crawling through evidence in a courtroom, putting the worst possible spin on it in front of a bored jury is somehow less... savoury than crawling around a floor collecting the evidence and putting no spin on it at all.  
  
But he's too tired to fight it out, not now. Maybe not ever.   
  
Sometimes some things are better left unsaid.  
  
He settles on a simple, "I know," which is truthful and not at the same time. It comes out sounding like 'goodbye' and maybe this time his father reads between the lines too. He doesn't know, not this time, but clicks off the phone and goes back to staring at the ceiling, the handset resting on his chest.  
  
The End  



End file.
